


Noli me tangere

by Lumeriel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Another AU-Fingolfin didn't die, BDSM, Gay Sex, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Other, Past Rape/Non-con, Self-Harm, Sibling Incest, Suicide Attempt, and Morgoth kept him prisoner, while the rest of his family was dead and reincarnated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-01-05 22:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21216305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumeriel/pseuds/Lumeriel
Summary: After being reincarnated, Fëanor faces numerous changes in the world that was once his: Indis and Míriel are the true rulers of Tirion, Finarfin is only king of name ... and the most important of the elven feats in Endor is a lie: Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor in Exile, the one who faced Morgoth, wounded him seven times and made him feel fear, was never in the Halls of Mandos. Fëanor discovers that Fingolfin has secrets, grudges ... and fears that never let him be the elf he once was.*Noli me tangere: latin: "Do not touch me." Expression taken from the Bible (St. John 20:17) Words spoken by Jesus Christ to Magdalene after his resurrection. ‘Do not touch me, I have not yet risen to the Father’.





	1. Chapter 1

The whip cut the air with a sinister whistle. White meat opened, discovering the exciting intensity of the carmine. Blood traced a sinuous thread through the back, sitting warmly in the valley between the firm buttocks, furrowing the seven-pointed star that had come to replace the previously indelible mark of a name.

The body arched back, fleeing from the pain; but looking for it at the same time. The long muscular legs tensed and a gasp escaped parted lips.

He watched him hungry. Desire twisted in his belly like a snake. With an effort, he forced himself to lift the whip once more and take it down precisely between the shoulder blades tattooed with membranous wings.

The moan uttered by the other ran through his veins like liquid fire. Gods, he loved that sound. He needed it. He wanted to hear it every second. It set on fire his blood, his flesh, his soul ... with a force he had believed lost. 

His prisoner's wrists twisted in leather and metal ties while he threw back his head, offering him the vision of bare throat, of eyelids, of forehead covered with fine perspiration, of his open mouth that promised a paradise of ecstasy ... He knew it: just the day before he had held him against his crotch, forcing him to swallow, to devour, to open for him ... while tears sprang from those glorious eyes, slightly slanted, sown with silver sparkles set in cobalt . He had kissed that mouth, devouring his own essence, taking possession of the tongue that did not shy away from him then, playing with the metal sphere that passed through it - the one he gave him.

He clenched the whip in his fist, fighting against desire and his thirsty eyes caught the tremor of his cock. How was it possible that he was so beautiful? And that he ignored it for so long?

He knew that body too well not to know when it swayed on the edge of the precipice.

He threw the whip aside and with abrupt gestures, released the ties of the shims, freeing his own erection even as he shortened the distance between them. He grabbed his thigh below, raising it slightly to place him better. He sank into him with a blow, stabbing the fiery narrowness with the violence of five ages of ignorance, of stupidity ... of rage.

He hated it. He hated that he was so damn perfect, that he welcomed his momentum with the strength with which he once went to death, that he devoured his body even when he rebelled. He hated that he resisted relying on him, surrendering to the devastating force that rammed his insides and filled his hunger. He hated that he could keep his expression closed, lost even when his body pulsed and gave up. He hated that the tight sphincter binds his cock as if that was its only destiny in life, as if it longed for it.

He stuck his fingers in the other’s hip as he held his other leg in the air, taking advantage of the position to lash out with more energy in the tight channel. Blood and his own fluids lubricated the movement. He moved his left hand by his side until he touched the open wounds: with cruel softness, he pressed his fingers into the bloody furrows.

A torn groan. An earthquake. The throbbing of the shivering flesh around his mast ... and he knew that his lover lost head, strength, fear ... He held him, circling him with one arm, pressing him against his chest as the tremors accompanied the descent of ecstasy. He felt him collapse and held him firmly. With skill, he untied the scalloped wrists and held him up to take him to bed.

With his eyelids low and lips parted, he knew he was faded, lost at last in the drowsiness of unconsciousness, far from everything he detested. He stretched out beside him and gently stroking him, he drove back inside. He moved slowly, enjoying the relaxed softness of his satiated body, traversing the bare neck with nose and lips, licking sweat on salty skin. When he was close - so close that the world flashed white and red in front of his eyes - he took him from the chin and kissed him gently as he sheathed himself in him until there was no room for a breath between them, and filled him with his seed, flooding him, marking him, possessing him.

He stayed inside his lover even though his sex softened, exhausted. Opening his eyes, he looked at him asleep and tenderly, stroked his shaved head.

"I love you, brother," Fëanor murmured, his vision blurred by tears.

Fingolfin, as always, did not hear him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Six months ago**

Feanor crossed the hall, ignoring the obeisances of the servants. With one hand, he released the clasp of ruby bullets that held the crimson cape on his shoulders. Once he opened the jewel's closure, he detached himself from the velvet garment and held it on a folded forearm while accommodating the lace of his chest. As he passed a mirror, he looked sideways, making sure he had the best possible clothes. Although he didn't give a damn what the Court thought of his appearance - he hadn't cared before; he was not going to care now that he had died and remained incorporeal for five ages - but he was definitely not in the mood to face the cold disapproval of Indis - especially because such disapproval was accompanied by Mriel's mute reproach.

It had been difficult to adapt to the changes that received him upon returning to Tirion. Not only society and laws had evolved into a more permissive, more open behavior; but Fëanor had found that Finarfin barely held any power. The Court of Tirion was the domain of the ‘two queens’. Two queens. Two Widowed Queens.

Indis Vanima. 

Míriel Serindë - with S, not with Þ.

Finwë's two wives now reigned over the Noldor, although not officially, of course. The Noldorin laws continued to veto a woman from occupying the throne; but for everyone it was clear that Finarfin was just a decorative figure, a king of catchpenny, more than happy to leave the government in the hands of his mother and stepmother. Another would have been the situation if Fingolfin had accepted the crown.

Feanor had arrived at the door of the Hall of Stars and before the servant stationed next to it had a chance to open it, the leaf opened from the inside and an elf crossed the threshold with an agitated step.

The elf stopped about to trip over Fëanor. With his eyelids low, almost brushing his cheekbones marked and pale, it was impossible to see his eyes; but Fëanor knew they were a deep blue, sown with tiny silver rays. The black hair was tightly braided, gathered inside a hairnet on the back of the neck. The clothes showed a sober elegance, without jewels or embroidery, and were wide, as if the elf wanted to hide the true shapes of his body.

“ I'm sorry”, he muttered when he stopped in front of Míriel's son and dodged him with elusive agility, he slipped out of one of the side doors.

Even before the noise of the little door closing off, another elf appeared at the door of the room.

“Uncle”, he greeted .

“Fingon.”

“My father…?”

“He went to his rooms, I guess.”

Fingolfin's eldest son nodded, his mouth contracted in a pout of disgust and advanced in the direction of the door through which Fingolfin left.

“What happened?” asked Fëanor before losing sight of him.

Fingon turned halfway: in his blue eyes - so similar to his father's - a flash of bitterness pulsed.

“As usual. Too many people around. Tell Maedhros and Maglor that I will see them later at home.”

Fëanor did not respond in the affirmative. His elder nephew closed the narrow door behind him and Finwë's firstborn turned to enter - finally! - to the room where his mother and stepmother waited.

ΨΨΨΨΨΨ

He hissed impatiently, almost angrily tearing off the obsidian buttons that closed the tight garnet velvet vest. Only when he managed to get rid of the tight garment, throwing it over a chair and being left alone in the white shirt, was he allowed to breathe in the air strongly, expanding his lungs.

Again. Once again he had to endure Indis' veiled suggestions, her "affectionate" expressions of concern when she found him idle ... idle! What did that damn woman expect him to do? Other silmarils? Wasn't it enough that he had damn accessed to ...? He would have ignored what Indis had to say - as he always did - if Míriel had not expressed her support in a blunt way.

Fëanor had a vague idea of how stubborn his mother could be; but he never imagined that firmness turned against him. In the first weeks after his reincarnation, Míriel had been all tenderness and maternal love; but as the months went by, the woman let out other facets of her character. And one thing was clear: Míriel supported Indis.

Idle! He was not idle! He didn't know the meaning of that word! He was learning, for God's sake! He was learning to live in this world! He was like a damn newborn! Nothing was how he remembered! Nothing was as it should be!

He stopped at the window, leaning on the windowsill, breathing in the scented air that rose from the garden.

He narrowed his eyes as he discovered the figure standing before the fountain.

For once, Fingolfin did not wear wide and heavy Sindarin robes, just wearing the pale silk shirt, tight leather pants, knee high boots. The hair descended to the ankles in a thick, almost blue of so black braid, stripping the ears adorned by five silver rings.

Fingolfin was with his back to the building and Fëanor took a few seconds to appreciate the rough delicacy of his anatomy. Regardless of what existed between them millennia ago, the artist and the anatomist in Fëanor had always admired the perfection of his half-brother's body: Fingolfin had inherited the best of his two parents. Both Fëanor and Nerdanel had used him as a model for some of their work and on more than one occasion, upon entering his wife's workshop, Fëanor had met eye-to-eye with a marble or bronze replica of Fingolfin, showing emotions that he never really saw in the severe factions. And yet, Fingolfin had always been ‘affordable’. For others, of course: he never made the attempt to approach. Not enough. But Fingolfin - the High Prince Fingolfin - had been the 'affordable' of the two of them, the one people were looking to solve their problems or expose their concerns, the one who sat for hours listening to complaints and requests, the one who nodded as if the fence broken from a peasant was the most fundamental issue in the universe, as if the flowering of Telperion depended on the birth of a new calf.

Fëanor frowned, realizing that he had been running with his eyes the line from the shoulder to the wrist, to the narrow hip, the firm thigh, the thick calf, the foot almost too delicate to support such a mass of muscle and temerity . And then, he realized that since his reincarnation he had not seen Fingolfin in such a… relaxed attitude.

With an impulse, he turned away from the window and left the room.

ΨΨΨΨΨΨ

Fingolfin threw back his head. The air caressed his pale cheekbones. For a second, he plunged into silence, the soft rumble of leaves and the whisper of fearful creatures. His senses too sharp even for his race perceived the slipping of tiny feet between leaves and gravel, the smell of iodine of insects and annelids, the rumor of tiny jaws devouring, the fluttering lost among flowers ... They were sounds he had missed once . It was a music that guaranteed loneliness, the remoteness of any similar, questions, looks, assumptions ...

Calm ripped apart with the gravel cracking under soles, under the weight of a body. Fingolfin's muscles tightened unconsciously and he clenched his fists as he turned in place without even the long braid stirring with movement.

ΨΨΨΨΨΨ

Fëanor stopped dead. His gray eyes followed the fluidity with which the other changed position to face him. For a second, the pupils hid the silver blue of the slanted eyes before the recognition eased the tension at the corners of the mouth; however, immediately the flash of alert returned to Fingolfin's gaze and Fëanor recognized the thought behind that detail: his half-brother considered him an enemy. Yet.

"I didn't see you at breakfast today," he claimed as if it were the first time he missed Fingolfin's absence in an official act of the family and the court, as if he had not got used to the fact that his children and nephews will ignore the empty seat. “Occupied? Or did Anairë keep you up late yesterday?”

Fingolfin dropped his eyelids slightly, hiding the watchful glow of his pupils behind the long eyelashes.

“No.”

For a few seconds, Fëanor waited for him to say something else. Fingolfin's voice was hoarse, different from how he remembered it, different from how he dreamed it for five ages in Mandos ... and yet it seemed unexpectedly adequate.

"My mother has suggested that I find an occupation," he said casually, ignoring the way the other's gaze followed him as he approached the fountain. “Both she and ... your mother say that I'm wasting my skills and my talent.” He raised an eyebrow, ironic. “Sometimes I think they forget where it took us to use my talent before.”

“What happened has nothing to do with your talent.”

Feanor was tempted to turn in front of him to make sure he had spoken so many words. With a violent effort, he managed not to betray his surprise: in almost a year, he had barely heard thirty words of Fingolfin.

"Many think so," he managed to point indifferently.

“Your pride and your selfishness; but not your talent. You have few virtues, Curufinwë: don't blame them for your mistakes.”

This time, Fëanor licked his lips: no one but Fingolfin called him by his father's name and so much time had passed ... no one but Fingolfin would tell him such things on his face.

"Looks like you're finally showing your true face, little brother," he smiled as he turned in front of him.

The step he was going to take was cut when he realized that Fingolfin had just stepped back, raising a fist to his belt, as if he were looking for a weapon that wasn’t there.

Fëanor felt the anger erupt in his chest. Before reconsidering his actions, he approached his half-brother in two strides and faced him with flaming eyes of rage.

"What the hell, Nolofinwë?" What the hell do you think I'm going to do to you? I don't carry a damn sword! What are you afraid of? Do you think I'm anxious to be banished again? I don't even know why you look so scared! You don't even have a damn scar!”

His hand shot toward the youngest's neck, instinctively seeking to strip the evidence of his words, confirming that no trace remained of his sword brushing that marble throat. His fingers barely brushed the lapels of the shirt, pulling the ribbons that tied it over the wide chest.

“Don’t touch me!”

Fingolfin's roar filled his ears as his fist hit his chest, pushing him away from him with impetus in which rage and terror mingled.

Fëanor remained frozen at the site while Fingolfin passed by him, disappearing on one of the cypress-lined paths.

Hours later, sitting in his study with an open notebook before him, Fëanor would still doubt having sighted the parallel lines that marked his half-brother's chest, deep claw tracks that shattered the perfection of his skin.


	3. Chapter 3

Maglor opened his eyes when he felt a movement behind him in bed. He stood up on one elbow to watch his brother stand up. Maedhros’ red curls fell into a lustful disorder even below the hips, covering and undressing the hard buttocks at once.

Maglor left the bed when the other went to the bathroom. Maedhros turned halfway to look at him with a raised reddish brown eyebrow.

"It's early," Maglor said, his voice husky from the hours of sleep.  
"I promised father that I would be there the first day," replied the elder.  
"It's just an aqueduct," he pouted. “You were late last night: you could sleep until noon.”

Maedhros pursed his mouth thoughtfully.

"I've never slept until noon. And after being with father, I have an appointment with the king ...”  
"With the queens, you mean. Are you going to accept that position?”  
“It's the least I can…”  
"Did Fingolfin even agree to share the position with you?"

Maedhros's gaze darkened and Maglor twisted his mouth in a grimace.

"I suppose that means that Fingon failed to convince him," he muttered. “The fact that he is not in bed with us must have given me a hint, right?”  
"He's in the cabinet. He didn't want to go to bed last night. I think he plans to talk to Indis to be the one who takes his father's place.”

Maglor crossed his arms over his chest.

"You're going to leave me alone all the damn day," he grumbled. “It will be as before.”  
"Don't be silly," Maedhros smiled and approached him to stroke his dark hair before leaning down and kissing him gently on the lips. “And stop grumbling: you’ll have wrinkles on your forehead, dear. Do you want to accompany me to bathe?”

Maglor looked down at the half-erect sex of his brother.

"I don't see why I should miss the opportunity."

ΨΨΨΨΨΨ

Maglor adjusted his robe over one shoulder as he made his way to the cabinet. Maedhros had left to find Fëanor at the site where construction of the new aqueduct would begin and initially the intention of the musician had been to work on the composition for the Festival of Flowering. However, as soon as he looked at the scrambled bed, his chest tightened, remembering why he had slept uncomfortably.

He pushed the half-open door of the cabinet and his eyes stopped on the body lying on the sofa lined with dark velvet. On top of the carpet lay several documents and a half-empty bottle. It was obvious that Fingon had been awake until relatively recently, probably reviewing the notes for the urbanization project in the northern area near Tirion. Maglor knew that the project was one of the priorities of Indis and Míriel, who had tried to convince Fingolfin to take care of it before they had to accept that it was Maedhros only who agreed.

The Fëanorion approached the couch and looked at the sleeping elf. Fingon lay on his back, his head resting on a flexed arm and one leg hanging to the ground. The vest and shirt half open showed the bare chest, highlighting the dark circle of a nipple next to the white silk. The abundant hair spilled over the velvet like a jet surge.

Maglor leaned down, still holding the robe against his chest with one hand, and extended his other hand to caress the temple, the high cheekbone, the curve of the jaw, the full lower lip ...

Everyone, all the songs, all the history books, the romances, the ballads ... talked about Maedhros's despair over Fingon's death in the Nirnaeth. People believed that if he - the greatest of the Noldorin singers - had not sung the death of Fingon the Valiant, it was out of respect for his elder brother's pain ... No one suspected then that Gothmog's ax had also sunk into his chest. Of course, at that time there was no bond between him and the High King of the Noldor and only because of Maedhros' suffering did Maglor know what they had lost, _how much they both had lost. _

After five ages, Maglor still remembered the first time he kissed that mouth, the delight of feeling his lips open to him in an offering of what he had once only been a visual witness. He remembered the warmth of the muscular and agile body, the energy that ignited his soul when at last - oh finally! - Fingon - the beautiful and smiling Fingon who until then only had eyes for Maedhros - surrendered to him. It was true that their relationship only existed at the beginning while Maedhros was not there, that at first he was only the refuge, that after the rescue of Maedhros it was natural that everything returned to its previous course - Fingon with Maedhros, he searching in other lips, in another body what he could not have. His same relationship with Maedhros had evolved only when Fingon became a knife in their hearts, a wound that could not heal. However, when he finally returned to Aman ...

Maglor grabbed the back of the sofa with one hand and descended to kiss the mouth of his cousin and husband.

A hundred years ago, he had jumped to the coast to be received by his cousins. Yes, he had loved to see all those who were once his friends, his companions, his allies; but only when Fingon hugged him, when that smiling mouth touched his and murmured his name ... only then did he know that he had returned home.

He turned away from the parted lips to descend down the cocked neck, using his right hand - the one marked by the silmaril - to remove the clothes and facilitate access to as much skin as he could.

When Maedhros was released from Mandos, Maglor found himself at a crossroads: he wanted to see the brother he loved most; but he was afraid of losing the space he had occupied in Fingon's life. And for a few weeks after his brother's return, Maglor felt he had lost once again.

He covered the nipple with his mouth, heating it with his breath before gently taking it between his teeth.

Fingon had come to him. He had searched in his room in the dark and without words, had taken him in his mouth and led him to ecstasy ... to madness. Then, he kissed him on the mouth, smiling and muttered, "I missed your taste."

His taste. Maglor growled silently when the body beneath him stirred thanks to his insistent attention. With skill, he released the belt and opened the fly to release the half hard cock.   
While licking and running with parted lips, sucking slight roses of passion, he moved his hand along the growing erection.

Maedhros and Fingon had proposed marriage to him just one year after the return of the first. How to forget the luminous and mischievous smile of this wonderful male when he proposed to be his husband, to commit to him in body and soul? How to forget the joy in the green eyes of Maedhros when he accepted? How to forget ... how to refuse the glory of being one with these magnificent males? How to give up the pleasure they gave him with just one look, a touch ... just with existing?

He felt in his fingers the moisture that arose from the hole in the tip of his partner's sex and moved away a little to observe with murky eyes the movement of his own hand in the thick length. Fingon was exquisitely created: even his cock was of a beauty that defied artistic patterns. Maglor stood on his knees on both sides of his legs and lowered his head to take it in his mouth.

“Fuck.”

The hoarse gasp betrayed that Fingon was no longer sleeping and the musician smiled as he devoured him, pressing with lips and tongue, up and down, enjoying the gentle thrust in his throat. While giving him pleasure with his mouth, Maglor used his own fingers to prepare his entrance, still dilated by sex with Maedhros in the bathroom. When Fingon lifted the hips of the sofa, looking for more depth, he pulled away, letting go of the throbbing cock with an obscenely wet sound, a thread of saliva connecting the reddened head with his open lips.

Maglor found Fingon's eyes darkened with desire and did not let his gaze go as he straddled his waist and guided him inside.

Fingon's hands dug into his hips, helping him keep up while riding him with frenzy. Maglor knew that Fingon could be a lover as delicate as glass, as tender as the apple that melts in his mouth; but he preferred him when he was the warrior, the king who took and conquered, the owner who filled and marked.

He arched back, shouting at the top of pleasure, his cock waving over his lover's striated abdomen, baptizing him with his passion. Fingon held him too hard, filling him, burying himself in him as if they were going to melt forever.

Minutes later, Maglor lay on one side of the body while Fingon leaned down to kiss his bare shoulder and comb his hair with his fingers.

"Someone woke up very hungry today," the younger teased and his lips tickled the musician's skin.  
"You didn't sleep in our room. I have barely seen you for days. I have begun to wonder if you are looking for a third husband. Did Aegnor finally accept that he is crazy about you?”  
"Aegnor?" Fingon repeated, raising his eyebrows. “Are you accusing me of wanting to form a harem, Káno?”

Maglor allowed the fingers on his chin to turn his face and looked at his husband's beautiful face.

"I know you were with Fingolfin most of the time," he finally agreed and extended a hand to rest it open on the other's chest. “I guess he won't accept that position in the Court either.”  
"Dad prefers tranquility now," replied the youngest and a shadow settled in his eyes.

Maglor raised his hand and drew his eyebrows, feeling his heart tight in his chest.

"Be patient, my love. Fingolfin is strong ... he is the strongest of us all. He ... he will also heal.”

Fingon stared at him. After a moment, he leaned down and kissed him tenderly.

"When you say it that way," he declared against his lips, "I can't help but believe you, my husband. What do you think if today we stay at home all day and cook something special for Mae? I think I've had a little careless for both of you.”  
"Oh, Maedhros will be happy to eat anything you offer," Maglor suggested with a mischievous gleam in his gray eyes.  
“Canafinwë Macalaurë!” His husband warned him with feigned severity.

ΨΨΨΨΨΨ

Maedhros smiled as he saw the silhouette of his father approaching among the workers. A week ago, Fëanor had finally agreed to the not-so-veiled indirects of Indis -and the almost orders of Míriel- and had taken over the construction of the second aqueduct in the southern part of the city. Fëanor had got Curufin and Caranthir to work with him; but he had been especially insistent that Maedhros be present on the first day of the works.

Of course Maedhros understood the motive of the paternal insistence: Fëanor would never ask for forgiveness - it was not in his nature and in reality, Maedhros would not believe an apology or a word of regret that came out of that sensual mouth. This was Fëanor's way of showing his firstborn that he was determined to perform more productive and ... generous tasks than designing gems that would lead to wars. No selfish projects. Fëanor knew that getting involved in the welfare of his people was a fairly efficient way of approaching Maedhros. And to Fingon. It was even a way to prove that he would try to get along with Indis.

“Well, it's going to be an intense day; but I think you'll enjoy it”, commented Maedhros when his father arrived with him.  
"You know I don't like being idle and the palace was already choking me."  
"And Indis, I suppose."

Fëanor frowned while pouting almost childish.

"I didn't remember her so bossy."  
"That's because you never paid her much attention," said his son, nodding. “Indis was the one who ruled the palace and almost the entire city. Except when Fingolfin was regent. But that is understood: the two have very similar views, so ...”  
"I've been able to notice it in these months. Everyone believes that Finarfin is who looks like her. For Eru! No one has any idea of that woman's true character.”  
"If you ask me, she's admirable."  
"Galadriel is like her," said Fëanor. “More than Fingolfin.”  
"Only in physical. As I said, Indis and Fingolfin think similarly ...”  
"Which makes me wonder again why she hasn't gotten him to agree to a position in government."

Fëanor let the comment float between them. His mind kept coming back again and again about that afternoon in the garden - Fingolfin's reaction, the scars on his chest, his reluctance to be touched, to be surrounded by people, to be looked at ... _to be perceived_. Fingolfin was a noldo (even while hating and despising him, Fëanor was aware that his half-brother was as noldo as he was) and that meant being proud, presumptuous, self-paid, arrogant ... Fingolfin was also beautiful. Since adolescence he had enjoyed the admiration of others, he had insisted on highlighting his many qualities, in attracting attention to the best of himself (something that on the other hand he knew how to do more than well). It was impossible that this elf had now become someone who preferred to be confused with the curtains, someone who kept his eyes down and his hands clenched between the clothes, someone who did not speak unless forced. That was not Fingolfin.

"Fingolfin doesn't feel comfortable with people," Maedhros said after a few minutes.  
"I have noticed, believe me," Míriel's son grumbled. “I guess we all learned lessons after all. Too bad we had to die, right?” he joked, hitting his son's shoulder. “Which leads me to ask myself again: what did my half-brother do to anger Námo to the point that he remade his body with scars? Or did you have an accident that I am not aware of?”

This time, Maedhros took much longer to respond. Fëanor turned to find his dark and incredulous look.

“What?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. “I didn't say it with offensive intent, I promise.”  
"You don't know," Maedhros affirmed more than asked.

Feanor felt his back tense.

“I don’t know what?”

For some reason, he wanted to hear the answer and at the same time ...

“Fingolfin didn’t… His body was not remade by Námo. Those scars are ... He was never in Mandos, father.”

Never? But how was it possible that ...? How could an elf be reborn without his body being remade? Only those who had sailed on their own to the West retained their original hroar; but Fingolfin ... Fingolfin had died during the First Age. In singular combat against Morgoth. As the Annals said ...

"What are you telling me, Nelyafinwë?" Fëanor claimed in Quenya.  
“It’s a lie. What the Gray Annals say ... is a lie. Fingolfin did not died against Morgoth. He simply did not die. He was taken prisoner.”  
"Prisoner," Finwë's eldest son repeated.  
"He was found when ... during the War of the Ring. Have you heard the story?”  
"Of the Rings of Power made by Telpë ... by ... Celebrimbor? A lot, really.”  
"Well, Fingolfin ... Sauron handed him over to Saruman for safekeeping him in Isengard. When Isengard fell, Mithrandir not only found a palantir among its ruins.”

Prisoner. For three ages. Three ages. Feanor felt his throat close. In Mandos, he had heard from the impersonal voice of Námo the horrors suffered by Maedhros for thirty years. Thirty years had disrupted the life and face of his son. Three Ages ... what would they have done to his half-brother?

"Just I didn't know?" interrogated dryly.

Maedhros silently denied.

"Few know the truth. Fingon, Turgon ... myself, Maglor ... the queens ... Elrond, since he was in charge of taking care of him until Mithrandir could bring him to Aman ...”  
"They said he had reincarnated two years ago ..."  
"He wasn't in Mandos. He didn’t die. He was in Lórien until two and a half years ago. Everyone assumed ... The matter was handled with care and with much secrecy by the Valar: they did not want the elves to know that one of their greatest heroes ... that one of the stories that inspired hope in Middle-earth ...”

"Was a farce," Fëanor hissed, feeling the nausea rise in his throat.

“Father…”

"I'm going back to work, Maedhros. I'm going -I'm going back to work now. See you these days, I hope.”

Maedhros followed his father's back as he walked back to where the foundations of the work were excavated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd always wanted to write a Maglor/Fingon XD


	4. Chapter 4

The mirror returned the image of someone he thought he had known a long time ago. There was a time when that face of elegant and slightly angular features belonged to a person he knew better than none. There was a time when he knew what those slightly slanted eyes, sown with silver sparkles in the blue irises...

He raised a hand to touch the strands of hair that fell down his shoulders, above the pale blue shirt. He dipped his fingers into his hair, sliding them to his waist, opening the waves like a mantle around his body. He stepped away from the full-length mirror and slowly, crossed his arms in front of his chest to pull the shirt over his head. The hair tangled for a moment in the garment and then fell almost languidly to his feet, wrapping his naked body like a black silk cloak. He shoved both hands into the thick mane, curling his fingers like claws on the back of his neck, grabbing handfuls of hair and pulling until the pain circulated through the tendons of his neck and his scalp. He closed his eyes, throwing his head back and clenching his fists ... until the pain tightened each muscle and forced him to clench the jaws. A short growl shook his throat.

ΨΨΨΨΨΨ

_Beautiful. _

The voice crawls in his mind, sending chills down his spine and drying his mouth.

_As beautiful as a star. What can we do with such a beautiful thing? So delicate? ... So appetizing? _

A finger runs along the line of his spine, tracing the vertebrae to the junction of the buttocks. It doesn't go down anymore and a tremor runs through his legs without him being able to avoid it.

_Mhm. So sensitive. So brilliant. Alive. _

The icy breath caresses his ear, his neck ... and clenches his eyes to not admit that what runs through his tense throat is the cold, viscous tongue. He knows that once his torturer was a beautiful creature, too beautiful to have a place in mortal dreams; but today he is only a shadow of anything, a stubble of the most powerful of the gods.

_After all this time, you're still alive, my precious. Alive ... and beautiful. _

The hands slide down his torso. He hates caresses more than blows. For the umpteenth time, he wonders if his nephew felt such horror about this closeness while he was a prisoner during those thirty years. Thirty years. Once, it had seemed like a very long time; however, since he is here, he has lost count of the days, of the years ... There is only emptiness ... and he.

_What will we do with you today, beautiful prince? Who will visit you this time? _

He feels the laughter in the deep voice and almost breathes with relief when his hands leave him and only hangs on the invisible chains that bind him to nothing.

_Open your eyes, Mad King. I want to see those wonderful eyes when I finally break you into a thousand pieces. _

He could answer him, spit words of defiance and anger, roar that he will never be able to break him - as he did not get it with Maitimo; but, deep down, he knows that he did break something in his nephew's spirit, that never ... never again Maitimo smiled as before -; so he shut up and just lift his eyelids to face him in silence. Morgoth Bauglir laughs - his dark shape waving and blurring - and a shadow hand reaches out to stroke his cheek with a golden nail. Blood runs to the corner of his mouth.

_Always challenging, my beautiful prince. Many said there was no more beautiful creature among the Noldor than Fayanáro Þerindion. _

He laughs again and approaches until his icy form almost touches the naked body of the prisoner.

_They have no idea of the delight you hid. If they heard you moan and cry as I have, none would want another pleasure ... Nolofinwë. Now, my beautiful love, who do you want to take your body this time? Your venerable father? _

The gloomy silhouette transforms into the vivid image of Finwë Noldoran and suffering tears the soul of the elf king: his father seems alive, alive!

_Your beautiful nephew? _

Now it is Maitimo who caresses his face; a perfect Maitimo, not yet touched by his father's madness or Angband's torments; a radiant Maitimo, bathed in the light of Telperion in the hours of rest in Tirion.

_Your lovely golden brother? _

Arafinwë smiles at him with Morgoth's smile and yet his appearance of eternal youth is sweet.

_Your human lover, loyal even in old age, in death? _

Haldor plunges his hands into his hair and leans down to brush his lips with his cold breath before bursting into a mocking laugh.

_Your brave and beloved son? _

Findekáno is the one who departs from his mouth, with the bright blue eyes of excitement and feels his arms again as on the ice; but the smile of his firstborn becomes blurred in a grotesque grimace as his body contortes, grows and a few seconds later, the bile drowns in the throat of the prisoner when he contemplates the features of the one who hurt him most and who, however, he can't hate at all.

_No ... _ the Vala purrs, _may it be the traitor of your half-brother who has you today, oh you, the greatest of the elven kings. _

The epithet is pure mockery in Fëanáro's richly ringed voice and closes his eyes so as not to see the sarcastic, dismissive, well-known expression.

Weak. His half-brother's eyes of mercury cast his weakness on his face; but then, he is no longer against him. He does not feel the pressure of his body and is about to sob with relief when the pull on his hair betrays reality. One leg pushes between his thighs and instinctively, he fights between the chains against the grip around his hips. When the hand in his hair forces him to bend with the force of a thousand mountains, he bites his tongue until he feels the taste of his own blood and squeezes his eyes, praying, praying ... Pain tears his body, sinks into his gut. It is repeated over and over again with each onslaught. Nails are stuck in his flesh and another pull in his hair forces him to straighten against the muscular torso that sticks to his back, making the invasion of his body more painful.

_Don't be shy, little brother. _

The words uttered by that sensual voice caress his neck, his ear ... they stir his stomach.

_Let me listen to you. Let me hear how much you enjoy having me inside you ... Ah yes, Nolofinwë! You are delicious. You have the most delicious ass in the world. I could fuck you all my life and always want more. You like it, right? You like to have my cock inside of you. You like being my whore. Cry. I want to hear how you enjoy having your ass fucked ... how you like that I make you my whore, little brother. _

The nails now trace blood grooves in his abdomen, in his chest while the other hand twists his hair as if it were bridles and the pain forces him to gasp. The bloody hand covers his mouth, introducing two fingers to force him to keep it open and gasps of pain, disgust, impotence sprout uncontrollably as a tear slips from the corner of his eye.

ΨΨΨΨΨΨ

He opened his eyes while letting go of his hair, with a rattle of disgust. He looked at his image in the mirror, watching the rise and fall of his marked chest when breathing.

Marks. Claw tracks crossed his chest and split his hips. A pale line circled his throat. Black strokes peeked over his shoulders, denouncing the wings that were engraved on his shoulder blades. He looked away before reaching his sex, disgusted.

Rabid, he pounced on his reflection. The glass creaked under the force of his fist. He ignored the blood that ran down his arm and grabbed a piece of glass, gripping it like a blade. With his left hand he held a strand of hair and putting the edge of the glass against the root, he began to cut, looking at his crashed reflection in the remains of the mirror that remained attached to the frame.

ΨΨΨΨΨΨ

Fëanor went to the bathrooms. Even as he walked through the galleries decorated with pastoral scenes that looked like they were taken out of human tales, he was taking off his clothes, stripping his tanned arms, his sweaty torso ... He cursed under his breath when the hair tangled with the pins of the coat and almost pulled a lock by pulling too hard. With an effort, he forced himself to calm down and untangle the jewel's hair too flashy to do field work.

“Damn bastards!” he roared after a moment.

A farce. Everything in Valinor was a farce, as millennia ago, as always. A fucking farce in which the elves were just puppets. Puppets.

_* ... in a last desperate attempt, Fingolfin struck with Ringil and sliced his foot, and the blood flowed black and steaming and filled the gaps opened by Grond.  
Thus Fingolfin, High Supreme King of the Noldor, the most proud and brave of the Elven kings of yesteryear, perished. *_

Fëanor felt the nausea rise again in his throat. Lies! They were all lies! Yes, yes, Fingolfin had ridden to Angband - the very stupid one! - and had challenged Morgoth, and had fought with him ... and wounded him and was defeated; but that damn bird had not rescued his body. That damn bird had let Morgoth keep his war booty. Fingolfin was not dead! Fingolfin had been dragged into Angband's black belly and there ...

He stopped his thoughts, panting, feeling the cold sweat slide down his bare back.

He thought of Fingolfin as he saw him before in Tirion, as he hated him before in Tirion: dark and proud as his father, an Eldarin prince, a king of the Noldor. He thought of Fingolfin: facing him in silence, the sword between them, the serenity of those factions that no longer betrayed disappointment. He thought of Fingolfin: his proud smile as he held his firstborn and showed him to the world, laughing. He thought of Fingolfin: a teenager in elegant ways, tilting his head on a shoulder with the grace of a bird. He thought of Fingolfin: a boy with black curls and curious eyes jumping to meet him from a tree at the entrance to the palace, laughing when his hands tickled him. He thought about the day Finwë took him to daycare and made him lean over the crib in which the baby slept.

_ “It's your brother, Curufinwë. Isn't him beautiful? ”_  
"He's very small," he had said, frowning. "Anything could hurt him."  
"It is your duty as an older brother to prevent that from happening." 

Fëanor pressed his eyes with his hands. Avoid him being hurt. Prevent damage to his brother. To Fingolfin. Where had he been while Morgoth ...? Oh yes, it was he who had brought Fingolfin to the clutches of Morgoth.

With a roar of fierce pain, he stepped towards the bathrooms. At least there he would be alone to shout his rage.

He pushed the door inlaid with mother-of-pearl and his breath caught in his throat.

In front of the broken mirror, Fingolfin was naked. At his feet lay almost half of his abundant black hair and he kept cutting - rather tearing - strands of hair with something that Fëanor could not distinguish. Disparate wicks jutted out from behind pointed ears.

Feanor saw his half-brother fight with a strand too thick and before reconsidering, he jumped at him.

“What do you do?” he demanded, grabbing his wrist in which he was holding ... a piece of glass?

Fingolfin faced him with his eyes fixed, empty of emotion.

Fëanor held his gaze, forcing himself not to see the other brands - more brands, more scars! - in the body (now he noticed) too thin.

"Let me do it," he suggested after making sure he could speak firmly. “Let me cut it for you.”

Fingolfin's eyelids descended slowly, almost capitulating.

"I want it all out."

Fëanor nodded, unable to speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *_* From The Silmarillion. Translation is mine since I've read it in Spanish.
> 
> Mad King: It's a headcanon of mine - I already used it in other stories - that after his duel with Morgoth, both the orcs and the Sindar called Fingolfin the Mad King.


	5. Chapter 5

Fëanor made Fingolfin sit down and went to the desk to rummage through the drawers for scissors.

In the bathrooms he had looked for a cloth to cover his half-brother, who had remained surprisingly docile, as if all his energy had been exhausted. He took him to his own rooms and told him to wait. Luckily, they had not met anyone on the way to the east wing.

With scissors in hand, Fëanor approached Fingolfin and set to work.

A chill ran down his skin: Fingolfin had made a mess of his head. At some points, he had cut so close to the scalp that it was raw, bleeding.

With a deep breath, Fëanor cut the first strand of hair. For a second, he almost wanted to cry over such waste. When he finally pulled away, hair on Fingolfin's head was only an inch out.

“It is done.”

Fingolfin held up one hand while the other held the cloth around his body. He fingered his bristling hair and growled under his breath.

“Not yet. I want it all out. Everything, Fëanor.”

Fëanor frowned.

"I can't shave your head. You have wounds and ...”

"Give me a knife," he demanded, turning in the seat in front of him. “It will only take a moment ...”

“Don’t!”

Fingolfin watched him coldly and stood up to go to the door.

“Where are you going?” Fëanor demanded, chasing him and grabbing him by the shoulder.

Fingolfin got out of reach, hissing angrily.

"To my bedroom. To do what I please.”

"You won't get out of here under those conditions. You’re naked. Do you want to be seen naked, Nolofinwë?”

Fingolfin's eyes twinkled like ice stars. For a second, he was again the elf - the king - that Fëanor remembered; but immediately, fear seized his expression, although he managed to quickly mask it.

"No," he admitted in a whisper.

Fëanor cursed the Valar once more. He hated this trembling and scared boy much more than he ever hated the usurper of his throne and his place in Finwë's heart.

"Sit back down," he ordered, pointing to the chair. “I will do what you want.”

Fingolfin returned to the seat and tightened the cloth.

Míriel's son went to the bathroom and returned with a bowl of warm water, soap, and a razor.

Shaving Fingolfin's head, after all the damage he did to himself, was quite a feat of patience and caution. Patience was not one of Fëanor's attributes. On more than one occasion, the razor's edge brushed a wound, causing Fëanor to recoil with a curse. Fingolfin, however, did not flinch once.

After an hour and a half, Fëanor finally stepped back and contemplated the result.

Fingolfin raised a hand and brushed the smooth, too-pale skin. His brother followed the path of his fingers with his eyes; but as they approached one of the wounds, Fëanor leaped forward, grabbing his wrist.

Like a cornered beast, Fingolfin leaped to his feet, hissing and spun around in front of Fëanor - a grimace stripping off his teeth.

“Don’t touch me.”

"Fuck off, Nolofinwë," the older elf snorted. “A moment ago you were fine with me touching you. What do you think I'm going to do to you?”

Fingolfin straightened his back, assuming a distant and majestic attitude despite his nakedness.

“Nothing. You couldn't do anything to me”, he replied coldly.

"You ass..." he contained the rudeness and shaking his head, added: “I'm going to get you some clothes. I think some of my robes will fit you.”

Fingolfin said nothing more and Fëanor went to the closet. After searching for a few seconds, he managed to find clothing that was light enough not to be warm and that did not reveal much of the body of the person who wore it. He turned to his half-brother and looked at him standing in the same spot, very straight, as if waiting for an order.

"You should let me heal your wounds," he suggested.

“It is not necessary. They will heal on their own.”

"You can't go around showing your head like you've been tortured ..."

He regretted his words as soon as he spoke them. Fingolfin lowered his head slightly and peered at him through long lashes, like a stalking beast.

“Can I not?” He asked in a low voice, thick ... dangerous.

"Your mother will not like it," said Fëanor.

"My mother doesn't like many things," Fingolfin replied, still in that tone similar to an icy purr.

"I mean it will hurt her. It will make her suffer to see you like this.”

Fingolfin's lips parted; but the reply did not come. He turned his face and closed his eyes.

"Can you heal them without touching me?" He asked.

"Do you want me to use only power to heal you? I am not a healer, Nolofinwë: I need to touch you at least a little ...”

“It's okay. Whatever. But make it quick.”

He crossed the bedroom back to the chair and dropped into it, ripping the robe from his older brother's hands.

Fëanor bit his lower lip and prepared to carry out his half-brother's orders. Again.

ΨΨΨΨΨΨ

"Fingon, wait!"

Maglor ran after his cousin and husband, ignoring the looks and murmurs that both caused throughout the classrooms.

Fingon gave no sign of having listened to him, only stopping at the double doors that led to the east wing, occupied by his father.

The bard came up to Fingon to find him arguing with the guard stationed at the side of the door. The sentinel - a young elf dressed in the white livery of Indis and whose winged helmet let out two thick golden braids - gave Fëanor's son a pleading look as he repeated to the other that Prince Fingolfin had given orders not to be disturbed in the rest of the day.

“Disturbed?” Fingon repeated as if it were an obscenity. “I'm his son, asshole! No order my father gave to the rest of the world applied to me!”

"Fingon, darling," said Maglor, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“What?” The younger roared, half turning in front of him. “What do you want, Macalaurë?”

"I want you to stop yelling at the young man for doing his duty," the other replied calmly.

"What duty or what the fuck! This idiot won't let me through! To see my father! My father, Macalaurë, who has been locked in his bedroom for two days and today goes out with ... with ...!”

Maglor bit the corner of his lower lip.

'With a completely shaved head,' Fingon wanted to say without a doubt. Maglor could not be made in the image either. The last elf he saw in that aspect was Maedhros when he was rescued from Thangorodrim.

Only a few minutes had Fingolfin been at Court - long enough to greet the two queens and return to his retreat. Indis had been too shocked to react. Míriel had taken it upon herself to receive the greetings of her stepson and to dismiss him. Fingon had arrived at the salon just as his father was withdrawing and the young man had run after him; but when he managed to get through the crowd of courtiers who muttered and pretended not to have seen anything, Fingolfin was out of reach.

"You don't solve anything by yelling at the boy," Maglor insisted softly. “Be reasonable ...”

"I don't want to be reasonable! Who are you to talk to me about being reasonable? You are a Fëanorion!”

Maglor paled. Fingon was right, of course: his family did not have the best history of rationality; but he did not expect him to throw it at him like that.

Fingon snorted as he closed his eyes and put a hand to his temple.

"Sorry, Maglor," he mused with effort. “That was… stupid of me. But I am sure you understand me. If anyone understands me, it's you. I need to talk to my dad. I need him to tell me what's going on, how -how can I help him.”

"I don't think you can help him, love," the older shook his head. “You have to give him time. You've been through this before ... We've already been through this. Together.”

"But we got Maedhros to talk to us. We didn't give up ...”

"I'm not asking you to give up. Fingolfin needs a little more time than Russo needed.”

"If I could talk to him ...”

"Not today," Maglor denied and tightening his hand on his shoulder, he pulled him away from the door and the guard who sighed with relief. “I propose something to you: let's talk to Maedhros tonight. He will surely be willing to try talking to Fingolfin. No one better than Russo can ... understand.”

Fingon pouted still; but at last he nodded and allowed himself to be led by his husband.

"Be patient, love," continued the musician. “I know how you feel; but you must be patient and not lose hope. Fingolfin will once again be the elf we remember and admire.”

“Oh Maglor!” Fingon exclaimed, pausing for a second to look him in the eye. “You and I know better than anyone that Russo was never the same again. How could Dad ...”

"We will help him."

ΨΨΨΨΨΨ

Fëanor did not look up from the sketches he was studying while Celegorm brought him up to date on what had happened in court the day before. He had guessed something like this would happen when his half-brother reappeared in public. Internally, he congratulated himself for insisting on healing the wounds: he didn't want to imagine what the reactions would have been if Fingolfin appeared with the skull as if he had fought with an orc.

He asked no questions when his third child finished speaking. He knew very well what Fingolfin looked like with a shaved head. On the other hand, Celegorm had obtained the information from Curufin, who obtained it from Aredhel, who listened to Fingon's story.

Celegorm put aside the subject of Fingolfin and talked for a while about his recent hunt with Oromë. Although Fëanor was not particularly happy that his children were approaching the Valar, he was aware of how much Celegorm wanted to have the company of Oromë again, so he bit his tongue not to comment on it. Only when the young man decided that he had already spoken enough without receiving more than monosyllables and grunts in response and started to leave, Fëanor left the notebook or and looked at his son.

"You said ... your uncle retired after yesterday, didn't you?"

“Eh yes. Fingon tried to see him and only managed to scare to death the poor guard that the vanya put at the door” he explained with a half-smile.

"Hasn't he even seen him?" Fëanor frowned.

"Nope. Not even the golden boy. Maglor is concerned about Fingon and Mae is still on that trip ...”

"Tell your brother I can't have dinner with you today. As much as I would love to meet Tyelpë and meet Aredhel's son, today I cannot go. We will leave it for another time. What's more, tell my grandson that he can bring the boy around here whenever he wants.”

Celegorm grimaced childishly before shrugging.

“As you like. But Curvo is not going to be happy. It is the second time that you are not going to have dinner with them.”

"I'll make it up to him."

Just an hour after Celegorm's departure, Fëanor left the workshop to head to the royal palace.


	6. Chapter 6

“What are you doing here?”

The question left Fingolfin's lips without he turning to his half-brother. Fëanor had broken into the bedroom without knocking. He was wearing work clothes and if Fingolfin had been wearing one of the elegant Noldorin robes that remained in vogue among dandies, it would have been like five ages ago. But it wasn't, Míriel's son reminded himself, staring at Fingolfin’s shaved head.

"Come visit you, what else?"

"I gave orders not to be disturbed."

"Oh, the girl who watches your door did not believe that I was included in that prohibition."

“I doubt it. And how exactly did you convince Nemmireth that I would be glad of your presence? That _girl_ was one of my bodyguards in Barad Eithel, so I'm pretty sure she knows we're not… the most loving brothers, precisely.”

"No wonder she laughed when I said I was worried about you," the older elf raised an eyebrow. “I guess she thought we would fight then.”

"A logical conclusion if coming from Nemmireth. And one that she would approve of. I, however, do not want your presence. Leave me alone, Fëanor.”

Fëanor ignored his hostile tone and took a few more steps inside the bedroom, approaching the table on which was a book marked by a green silk ribbon: a gift from Finarfin, no doubt.

"You were in court today."

“You were not. Rumors travel fast.”

"Your son is worried, which worries my children. Especially Maglor, who is alone to deal with your spawn.”

"Fingon doesn't have to worry. I'm fine.”

"You are far from well," he raised an eyebrow.

A dry, humorless laugh erupted from Fingolfin's lips, who finally turned to face his half-brother.

"You are not the right elf to talk about my emotional or mental state."

“I'm not sure I understand…”

"You freaked out. You were crazy for years before running to your death. You are obsessive, narcissistic and paranoid. You think everyone wants to steal something from you all the time. In your delirium, you dragged your children to their doom and condemned all of our people to a slow and painful death, and you were still screaming that you were right!”

Fëanor listened to him silently, frowning. Fingolfin had not even exalted himself when speaking; but Fëanor felt that it was much worse than if he had yelled at him.

"Morgoth did steal my silmarils," he pointed out after a few seconds.

Fingolfin watched him coldly.

"I don't need you to remind me. If anyone has had the opportunity to ‘admire’ your pretty stones, it is me.”

Fëanor grimaced.

"I came looking for you. I know you have not trained again and neither have I. We should train together.”

"Do you want us to fight?"

Said that way, Fëanor had the feeling that he had said something inappropriate. He looked at his half-brother's almost amused expression and convinced himself that it was working.

“I said ‘train’; but if you want to fight ... Well, I suppose that will help us to start.”

Fingolfin watched him for a few seconds and finally turned his back on him.

"I am not going to fight with you."

"Can we start with something simple ... archery, perhaps? Come on, Nolofinwë!” He warned him when he perceived that he was going to refute again. “It costs you nothing to go out and throw a few rounds with me. You may even beat me.”

The answer was a low snort. Fëanor took it as a good sign.

"I'm sure it won't kill you to get out of this room and shoot a few rounds of archery with me. And run a few miles later.”

Fingolfin turned his head over his shoulder and looked at him out of the corner of his eye. A flash crossed his pupils and Fëanor had the sensation of being watched by a tiger.

"No," said Fingolfin icily. “It won't kill me.”

ΨΨΨΨΨΨ

He must have remembered that Fingolfin had something of a warrior in his blood. Fëanor watched with a frown as all the arrows hit the very center of the targets. He had forgotten that his half-brother could be as good as he wanted. True, he was not the best of craftsmen - just because Fingolfin was never interested in those labors - but he did have talent and knowledge in the arts of arms. Of course he had had some… four hundred and so many years of the Sun to specialize in. On the other hand, this was the elf that faced a god in a singular duel and almost...

"That's a complete defeat," Fingolfin declared, without turning around in front of him.

Fëanor licked his bottom lip, reluctant to admit it out loud.

“A race?”

Fingolfin shrugged and put his bow against the wall, heading briskly to the end of the track.

Fëanor followed suit.

“On the count of three. One, two… three!” He exclaimed, starting to run.

"Typical," muttered the younger, following lightly.

Míriel's son kept the triumphant smile for the first five hundred meters. Thanks to his little ruse, he kept the advantage, running a few meters ahead of his half-brother.

The wonder was reflected on his face when Fingolfin passed him like a silver bolt.

"Go," Fingolfin hummed away.

Fëanor looked at him, intrigued. As light as the passage of an elf - even a _laegel_ \- was, the elven ear was just as skilled. He must have sensed Fingolfin's approach.

As soon as he passed his older brother, the King of Barad Eithel slowed down, maintaining regular, graceful strides that helped him retain the advantage without straying too far. Fëanor took advantage of that circumstance to study him.

Certainly, there was something unusual about Fingolfin. Ever since he matured from childhood to adulthood, Indis' oldest son had been rather… muscular, a tough elf, and even a little rough. He had learned as a teenager to handle both the wide double-edged swords preferred by the Noldor and the slender spears of the Vanyar, which contributed to developing his muscle mass. Fingolfin was what was known in the arena as a 'heavyweight'. His fists were fearsome among the fighters. In conclusion, he was not the light type of scouts and hunters. How was it possible for an elf like him to run so quietly?

True. Fingolfin had lost a lot of weight since Fëanor abandoned him in Aman. His body still seemed strong; but a strange delicacy had infiltrated his limbs. At times, Fëanor had had the feeling that Fingolfin ‘was transparent.’

He shook his head and quickened his pace. Another day he would take a deeper look at his brother's changes; today ... today he would be content to exhaust him.

ΨΨΨΨΨΨ

Steps. Steps behind him. Speeding up. Steps approaching. Steps that reached him. He heard ragged breathing, the racing heartbeat of blood reddening eyes.

Run away. Be fast enough to run away even this time. Once again. Run away one more time.

He quickened his pace, letting his body to take over. He adjusted his breathing and tried to stretch his strides further, preparing himself for when he should step aside.

ΨΨΨΨΨΨ

Fëanor gasped, on the verge of collapse. Why the hell was he running so fast? _How_ the hell did Fingolfin run so fast? With a supreme effort, he lunged forward and reached out to grab his shoulder.

"Nolvo ..." he gasped as his fingers touched the silk shirt.

He barely managed to stop and jump to the side, dodging the fist that sought his face and only brushed his shoulder. He rolled out of Fingolfin's reach and stood up breathing heavily.

“What the hell…?”

He left the question unfinished as he had to worry about evading the rain of blows that fell on him.

What was happening?

Barely recovered from the demanding race, Fëanor managed to evade a right hand to his chin and a kick to his abdomen. It didn't even cross his mind to run away. Clenching his fists, he prepared for the fight.

He took the first seconds to study Fingolfin. His style was… exceptional. His moves mixed the strength of Noldorin boxing with the Sindar's most elegant fighting style and a certain 'bird-like' grace that probably dated back to some Avarin tribes.

The kick to his side forced him out of his admiration. He cursed under his breath and threw himself at Fingolfin. His only advantage was that his half-brother seemed out of his mind, absorbed in a kind of trance.

He slipped out from under Fingolfin's arm and spun to stay behind him, catching him before he turned. He put an arm around Fingolfin’s neck and squeezed.

Fingolfin struggled to free himself. His elbows dug into Fëanor's hardened abdomen and Míriel's son knew he was going to have to deal with a few bruises later.

The younger one managed to grab his brother's long hair and pulled hard. Fëanor roared in pain and anger. In a desperate effort to free himself, he sank back, dragging Fingolfin. At the last moment, he spun on one foot.

Fingolfin landed face down on the sand. He kept bucking like an angry horse. A better placed nudge forced his opponent to back off enough so that he could turn around and jump on top of him.

They rolled across the sand, wrestling and throwing punches that would probably have taken a less stout - or less furious - elf out of breath.

Fëanor managed to put a hand around his half-brother’s throat and pushed him, making him lie on his back, to straddle him.

Fingolfin hissed, showing his teeth and tried to hit him again; but Fëanor caught his wrists with his free hand and held him against the ground with all his strength.

They stayed like that for a few seconds. The veins on the arms of both elves tightened in exquisite relief. Fëanor snorted through clenched teeth, making sure to only exert just enough pressure to dominate without damaging. Fingolfin let out an impotent rattling and opened his mouth for air as he arched back. Immediately, a moan left his lips.

Fëanor only had a second before he understood two things: one, Fingolfin surrendered; two, Fingolfin was excited.

He could feel between his thighs, under his own crotch, the bulge in the other's pants. For a moment, the stun was enough for him to ease the pressure on the other's throat.

Fingolfin suddenly opened his eyes and shoved him off him.

Fëanor sat on the ground, groggy, as his brother crawled on his hands and knees away from him.

“Nolofinwë ...”

"No," he interrupted hoarsely.

Without saying more, he stood up and left the training arena with a silent step, without looking back.

Fëanor watched him walk away, for the first time unable to put his thoughts into words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *laegel: green elf.
> 
> *Nemmireth: water jewel (sindarin)


	7. Chapter 7

Fëanor stopped the movement of the arm with which he raised and lowered the hammer, and with an arched eyebrow he contemplated the… ring-spring-drill… piece of useless crap he had been hammering for half an hour. With a furious growl, he tossed the piece of metal across the room. The piece bounced off the wall and fell to the ground with a clink. Fëanor placed the hammer on the anvil and jerked off his apron, almost ripping the straps that tied it around his waist.

“Shit!” He roared under his breath.

What had he been overlooked? For the past week, the same question had been repeated in his head. Inviting Fingolfin to train had been his way of distracting him. He thought he was doing well: Fingolfin concentrated on the race and Fëanor believed ...

Of course he had imagined the worst. He evoked the image of Fingolfin as he was in the past, before everything happened, before the plaza, before the sword, of exile ... and admitted that it was impossible for someone as obsessed with beauty as Morgoth to ignore such a creature. He had imagined ... many things - terrible, dark, cruel things - but he had not thought ... it never occurred to him to think ...

Maedhros. He should speak to Maedhros.

He went to the door of the workshop, but stopped dead short before reaching it.

It was totally unthinkable that he would have that conversation with Maedhros. It was unthinkable that he would force his son to relive his captivity in Angband. What was he thinking, by all the Valar? Had he lost all sense of logic? For Fingolfin?!

He returned to the anvil and grabbed the hammer again. He weighed it in his hand, swinging it up and down, staring at the forge.

There was something else, something that eluded him.

He had understood Fingolfin's attitude during those months - his refusal to be among many people, his aversion to being touched, his insistence on wearing clothes that covered his body to such an extent that it was impossible to guess the shape they were hiding - it was the logical attitude in someone who was tortured. He had read articles, studied documents, had come to Estë’s Gardens to meet her Maiar about how to approach someone who had lived through such experiences ... Of course, all this he had done thinking of his son, not dealing with Fingolfin's trauma - whatever it was. However, now that he had had the chance to ... feel one of the aftermath ... Aftermath? What aftermath? How was it possible that someone who was fleeing physical contact was excited by being in the middle of a fight? There was… there was something that was overlooked. There was something he didn't know yet.

He let out a sigh and rubbed his brow with his middle finger. He had to stop thinking about all that. It would be the best for everyone. It had already been a lousy idea to try to do something for a half-brother that he never showed much interest in. If only he didn't have the slightest idea of what ...

"Prince Fëanor? High King?”

Fëanor dropped his massaging hand between his eyebrows and turned to see the young woman standing on the threshold.

"You are Nolo –Fingolfin’s escort."

"His personal guard actually; but "escort" does not displease me. As long as they don't call me "babysitter" I'm fine.”

“I get it. What do you do...?”

“His Majesty…”

Fëanor held her gaze as the young woman broke off, grimacing. The Sindë shook her head and mumbled something in a dialect between Quenya and Sindarin that Fëanor interpreted as obscenity.

"Old habits don't die easily, they say," Nemmireth explained. “_High Prince_ Fingolfin invites you to his chambers. This afternoon. To ... have tea?”

ΨΨΨΨΨΨ

Fëanor stopped at the front door of Fingolfin's chambers. Second time in a week. He was setting new records for himself.

The guard was an elf he did not know. A noldo this time; but he also wore the silver-edged blue livery that identified the House of Fingolfin.

"I'm going to see my brother," Fëanor announced in a tone that admitted no contradiction.

The guard bowed briefly and replied:

"His Highness awaits you."

Fëanor raised an eyebrow, certain that if Fingolfin had not announced his presence, that soldier would not have let him pass. Another "babysitter".

He found his half-brother standing at the half-open door-window. He wore one of those stiff-necked Sindarin robes and skirts down to dark leather boots.

Fëanor's gaze swept over the formal attire and his head was still smooth. Incredible: Fingolfin's skull had a delicate shape, a smooth curve. The absence of hair helped highlight the beauty of the slightly slanted eyes, edged with double lashes - a trait of Finwë that none of his other children inherited.

Finally, Fëanor fixed his attention on the table with the tea service prepared.

"We're really going to have tea," he said.

"If that's okay with you. Allow me to express my gratitude for having accepted this invitation.”

"You make me suspicious when you behave so formally."

"It is not my intention to arouse your suspicion, brother."

"I feel like you're preparing something," Fëanor growled, folding his arms across his chest. “A week ago you did not want to see me and today ...”

“I owe you an apology.”

Fëanor choked on his own spit.

“You owe me nothing. I'm the one who ... I shouldn't have pressured you. I shouldn't have given in to the urge to fight you. I should ... I should remember that you don't like ...”

Hell, apologizing was really complicated.

"I shouldn't have put you in that situation."

“In what situation? Exactly”, Fingolfin said with excessive calm.

"In ... in a situation that made you remember ...”

An unpleasant smile raised the left corner of the younger's mouth. Fëanor frowned.

"I trust you will notice that I did not have a precisely unpleasant memory. Not at the end. I just wanted you to know that it had nothing to do with you.”

“It didn’t?” Fëanor did not know how to feel about it. _Nothing? So that would have happened with anyone?_

"To my shame, yes."

Fëanor realized that he had asked the question out loud when he heard his half-brother's answer.

“Sorry. I did not mean…”

“Sit down. I haven't served you tea yet.”

Fëanor accepted and waited silently as his brother took the teapot and poured the hot liquid precisely into the cups.

"They were competitions at Angband ... gambling," Fingolfin commented calmly when his brother had taken a few sips of tea. “Each competitor featured a ... pawn. I used to be Sauron's. We were generally… hunted. Whoever stayed alive for the prescribed time, won.”

"The ... orcs? It was the orcs who hunted you, wasn't it?”

"And some of ourselves. Do you think everyone preferred to die rather than surrender?” He asked with a grimace instead of a smile. “Occasionally, other competitors could try to get you out of the way or, conversely, use you as a distraction for hunters.”

"I see that race was a terrible idea," sighed Míriel's son. “I had no idea…”

"You couldn't. You could have no idea. Because ... what do you know about true horror? What do you know about fear? But that's not why I owe you an apology. Sooner or later I would have come back to myself if it had just been the bad memories.”

Fëanor dropped the cup back onto the table, for fear of dropping it in surprise.

"You already mentioned it. Not only bad memories then. You want…?” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Do you want to talk… about it?”

“Not really.”

Fingolfin looked away from the window and Fëanor bit the inside of his cheek, analyzing how to proceed.

"What I want is to bury everything, forget that it ever happened, pretend that I was really dead, that he killed me that day ... I want to pretend that it was a nightmare, that I am still the High King of the Noldor in Exile, that I am a damn hero how those damn shit songs sing”, he concluded with a soft, low voice, without expression.

Fëanor held his breath. For some reason, with Fingolfin it was always like this: the smooth, fragile, diaphanous surface of the ice ... and below, the fury of the torrent. Fëanor waited for the crunch of the ice breaking.

It didn't come.

“But it's not like that. And I have to speak to someone. So Findekáno will leave me alone. And my mother will stop looking at me like she wants to carry me on her lap. And Nemmireth will stop frowning.”

"Are you going to talk to me? Why not with one of them? I am sure that Findekáno ...”

"They care."

Fëanor was struck by sudden understanding.

“And I don’t?” He stood up, furious. “I do not care? Why the hell do you think I came looking for you that day? Because don't I give a damn shit?”

Fingolfin squinted at him and stared at the window again.

"You don't care enough. And you only came because you are looking to alleviate all your guilt and you feel ... a little responsible for ... my luck. Don’t do it. Don't feel responsible, Curufinwë. I really expected to die that day.”

Fëanor dropped back into the chair, growling:

"How does that improve it?"

“I don’t know. You will know if it changes something.”

They were silent for a few minutes. Fingolfin took his mug and held it in his hands, always looking out the window.

"We fought. Among us. Like a game. Away from the sight of our masters. The winner chose the position. It was the only time we were in control. We chose our adversaries. If you fought, you were agreeing to the terms of the game and promised to do your part. Whatever the outcome of the match, we had gotten there by our own decision. And that… was what made it special, different.”

“I get it.”

“You do?” Fingolfin raised an eyebrow, a slight sarcastic grin curving his mouth. “Do you understand how important it was for us ... for me ... to feel that for once I was in control? I don't think you really have an idea, my brother.”

Fëuben felt the urge to refute, to - once again - compete on each subject with his half-brother. His attention drifted to the shaved head, completely smooth and healthy ... and he remembered the scars on Fingolfin's naked body, the marks ...

"You're right," he capitulated. “I have no idea.”

Fingolfin blinked, taken by surprise and Fëanor half-smiled before he could avoid it.

"Good," said the son of Indis, with a pout. “That is an advance. I hope this was ... illuminating for you. It has been a pleasure to share my ... thoughts with you and I hope you know how to excuse me if I do not accept another invitation to train. Although I doubt there will be another invitation.”

“In fact…”

Fëanor sensed how Fingolfin tensed slightly at his words, but did not stop this time.

"I think it would be good for you if we repeated the experience. At least once a week.”

Fingolfin's blue eyes narrowed, studying him. A flash flashed across his pupils a second before he jumped to his feet with abrupt agility.

"I don't need your compassion. I don't need your time. I do not need anything from you.”

Fëanor sat up, frowning.

"Why would I have compassion on you? And I do with my time as I please. I want to train ... and nobody but you seems to be free.”

"Any of your children would be happy to keep you company. Even, if you want, I’ll suggest to Turgon or Aredhel that they fight with you: they will both love to do it.”

"I want it to be you."

"It is too late, Curufinwë."

Fëanor opened his mouth and closed it again without saying anything.

“Too late?”

"To want to be my brother. It's too late.”

Fëanor almost choked on his own breath. For a second, he recalled all the times that as an infant or a teenager, Fingolfin had tried to attract his attention, win his affection ... two things he was unwilling to give him. So much time had passed since that time that it was logical to see it that way: too late. However, he was not known to back down from obstacles.

"You said yourself I don't care," he pointed out. “I don't care about you or your ... feelings. I want to train ... improve my hand-to-hand combat techniques ... and the only one who wouldn't hold back to fight me ... is you.”

He took the cup off the table and emptied it in one gulp.

"Tomorrow at the seventh hour in the arena."

"I'm not going," Fingolfin shrugged.

"I will come looking for you. And I'm sure that babysitter of yours will be happy to push you into my hands.”

**Author's Note:**

> As I said once, there are thousands of AUs in my mind with Fëanor / Fingolfin, and in many of them, Fingolfin was taken prisoner by Morgoth and kept as a slave, pet, sex toy ... I have a complicated way of loving Fingolfin .  
Maybe later explain some headcanons regarding this specific AU.


End file.
